This couldn't REALLY be happening
by LovelyKouga
Summary: Set during SE3 EP1, in which the great Consulting Detective is unable to diffuse the bomb in the subway. John and Sherlock open up to each other in the face of death, revealing their deepest regrets so soon after being reunited.


This couldn't **really** be happening. Oh no, not really. Not now. It was too soon, so sudden…and it was much, much too cruel.

"But...I just got you back…" a defeated male voice muttered, breathless, almost offhandedly. It was inaudible, or at least he must have thought it was.  
"John…" came the sullen reply. It was the only way to respond at this point, as no words of comfort would ever be enough to quell the stomach-dropping fear clenching in John Watson's stomach. He gulped low in his throat as he stared down at the bomb between his feet – not even five minutes left on the clock. Hardly enough time left to escape the impending blast, and certainly not enough for a tearful goodbye. But, then again, that wasn't really his style.

The once tall, powerful stature of one Sherlock Holmes had rapidly become one of hunched shoulders and guilt-ridden hopelessness. This scared John perhaps more than the bomb ticking between his feet. The bomb was predictable, stable in its cause, but Sherlock? He had never seen his friend in such a state. His hands shook as he knelt at the Doctors feet, fumbling over the countless wires, his words spilling over each other in his desperation to solve an impossible task. John sniffed, a sound that made the mess of dark curls shuffle back to reveal a pair of sharp, clear eyes. Eyes usually so full of cocky attitude and self-confidence, which now seemed dashed to ribbons.

"I can't do it…John, I can't do it." It was almost a whimper.  
John knelt down to the defeated man's level, laying a hand on his shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding, and it visibly steadied his friend who stared back with hopeful, albeit watery eyes. "…Of course you can, you're the great Sherlock Holmes, remember!" John chirruped, his smile fake, guarded. "There's nothing you can't do."  
"Double negative."  
"Smart-ass."  
"Impossible."  
The familiar banter seemed pointless now, but it was encouraging.

The taller man, even when they were hunkered down on the balls of their feet like this, inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, hovering his hands on either side of his face.  
Mind palace, thought John. He might do it yet.  
His hand never left Sherlock's shoulder, now not being the time to bring attention to his intimacy issues. It was pointless now, but the warmth was not unwelcome, a sentiment that did not go unnoticed by the Consulting Detective, distracted as he was. He was always strangely, _maddingly_, aware of John. Sherlock knew not what he had had to delete from his brain in order to make room for his all-consuming fascination with the man, but little did he care. As he mentally flicked through thousands of books on the subject of bombs, ones he had filed away for later perusal, the corner of his mouth turned up in a smirk as he remembered John wrongly calling it a 'photographic memory'. It was almost endearing. He was soon pulled out of his fond memories by a rough hand squeezing his shoulder, he had almost forgotten it was there.

"You did it?" John chided, obviously in reference to the upward quirk of Sherlock's mouth. He leaned in closer, tilting his head to better survey his expression.  
Sherlock opened his eyes slowly and lowered his hands onto John's knees, taking a shaking breath. "–No, I…oh _John_." The shorter man's face faltered, more so at the crestfallen expression on his friends face, but he wouldn't deny he was a little taken aback at the sudden physical contact. "I'm so sorry. It's not here, my mind, its…its failed you." He hung his head in shame. This was new territory for him. He always had an answer, a theory, for EVERYTHING. Never had he felt more useless, and worse still, if not for his fucking show-offy entrance back into John's life, he wouldn't be here right now with him. His own life he could care less, but John…

It wasn't right. It was too soon. This couldn't **really** be happening. Was this how their story was to end, knelt together in the middle of a dirty subway train, blown to smithereens? Slightly romantic. But it wasn't the way he would have wanted to go. He'd always imagined he would die for John, heroically, decently, hailed a hero…but now it seemed John would die _because_ of him. The guilt was too much to bear, and tears of frustration prickled in the corners of his eyes.

Slack-jawed, John could only stare as the man he deemed unbreakable fell apart in front of him. There were no physical signs; with Sherlock there never was, but a twitch here, a sound there, and John could read him almost as well as Sherlock could deduce himself.  
"Mate…" He wasn't going to say it was okay, because it wasn't.

They both stood up then. John's posture was that of a military man; shoulders back, chest jutted forward, legs straight, and his right arm was crooked in a sign of respect…a final salute. In return, the other man instantly phased into the regal creature John had come to know. All except for the rose lips, now formed into a thin line, as his face attempted to purge all emotion. He was moved.

"It's been…" John began, but his voice cracked before he could finish.  
"Yes." Sherlock's voice was soft, velvety, calm, and impossibly deep. So different from his own. He lowered his arm and offered his hand instead, and a much larger, though somehow more delicate gloved one grasped his without hesitation. They held there for what would seem to others an uncomfortably long time, just looking at each other. If this was the last view they would ever see then well, that was just fine indeed.

"Any regrets?" Sherlock ventured, genuinely curious. "Anything at all?"  
"You go first." John mumbled, a little embarrassed at what had just flashed into his head. "But make it quick."  
Sherlock released his hand and ran it through his hair, the tendrils standing up oddly for just a moment before settling back into their unfazed position. "I never got a dog."  
John chuckled. "That's all?"  
"Well, I had one once, but…"  
"But?"  
"Animal Welfare just do not understand the necessity of willing test subjects." His grin turned sheepish as his hand rubbed the back of his neck. "The bloody thing got into my medicine cabinet and well, I never knew that colour liquid could come out of a dog."  
The Doctor shook his head in disbelief, shoulders shaking with his mirth. "Not a colour found in nature, I assume."  
"Hardly. He was puking rainbows. I was lucky the LGTB community didn't come a-knocking he was that fabulous…I did feel bad though. He was a good companion, but not as good as…_Aherm_. Well. The pet I have now."  
John couldn't stop the warmth that spread through his body then. He would miss…this. Once you got to know him, got under his skin, Sherlock was a very genuine person. You know, if you looked past the constant emotional manipulation and lying.

"And what about you?"  
"Hmm?"  
"Your regrets…you know, besides dying. Anything you wanted to do but never had the chance."  
John wanted to ponder this for a while, but it was then he had become aware of the ticking of the bomb still underfoot. He panicked. What HAD he wanted to do? He honestly couldn't think…his life had been pretty wonderful up until this point, well, with Mary and Sherlock in the picture, there really was nothing he would have changed in recent memory. The past was a different matter, but the past is the past.  
"Nothing you were ever curious about?"  
John snapped his head up then, not realising he had been staring at his fidgeting hands. He didn't like Sherlock's tone, it sounded almost…knowing.  
Bollocks. He didn't know…_did he?_  
"No, and what are you implying?" He spat back, ears turned just the slightest shade of strawberry. Was he toying with him? The out of character touching, the mentions of the gay community…coincidence, surely? But we all know how Sherlock feels about coincidences.  
"Oh, nothing at all, nothing at all…" The taller man practically purred, his mouth curved in a mischievous smile. "I was merely referring to your latent homosexual desire for me."

And there it was. What a time, what a place. John Watson stood not a metre away, mouth agape and all comebacks lost in the breeze as Sherlock continued to smile in that infuriatingly perceptive way. Sure, he'd brought this up before, but always in more tactful, teasing ways. And if he had noticed, he had never mentioned it…unlike Mrs. Hudson who still believed they were a couple.  
"I don't-!"  
"You do."  
"I–!"  
"Do."  
"How?"  
"I know everything, remember."  
"You don't know when to shut up." Growled the smaller man.  
Well, that was true.  
"Did Mary know?" Sherlock ventured, suddenly serious. John couldn't bring himself to look Sherlock in the eye, so he stood hunched, fists clenched, eyes drifting off to the side. The crumbling bricks of the subway tunnel had never looked more interesting. "She…" He cringed.  
"I knew it." John was now beet red. So, it was all in the open now? "I also have an inkling that she was not…" Sherlock leaned in then, lips too close, his breath wet in John's ear. "Completely opposed to the idea?"  
John flinched, his breath caught in his throat.  
**How?!** How in the devil had he known _that_? Mary had often been sexually adventurous, teaching John more about his own body in six months than he had ever known his whole life…embarrassing, considering his profession and knowledge of human anatomy. So it wasn't long before she noticed the way John looked at Sherlock sometimes. It could be mistaken for hero-worship, bromance at most, but Mary had always been extremely observant when it came to attraction. Speaking of which, John had almost come on the spot when she had mentioned a threesome, with none other than herself, John Watson and the famous Consulting Detective. He'd had to painstakingly explain the situation, along with Sherlock's supposed asexuality, but she hadn't bought it. For months afterwards she would find cases and set them up on 'friend-dates'. She would feed his fantasies, playing with his prostate and making him come from his ass while he jacked off to the thought of Sherlock. Letting him cry his name. But he would never admit his attraction, it would ruin things, it was…unnatural. He was so careful. He knew how to hide things from the eagle-eyed Detective, but clearly this particular perversion was now out in the open and there was nowhere to run.

Sherlock hummed contentedly, withdrawing for now and bouncing on the balls of his feet. So nonchalant, John envied him. But now, death couldn't come quick enough, how long was there left on the clock anyway? He made to glace down at the glowing red face of the clock below, but a strong hand clad in leather shot out and held his face in place. Shocked grey eyes stared fearfully up at the emotionless blue, and his stomach did flip-flops. Sherlock was holding him there, commanding his attention, his eyes darting all over John's lined face to pick up every subtle movement. John could just imagine what his mind must be thinking, compiling a mental list for all he could see on the open book that was John Watson's face. The shortness of breath, the slight sheen of nervous sweat, the tinge of pink on round cheeks, the tongue wetting pliable lips while his optics swept longingly over Sherlock's own parted mouth…it was more revealing than being naked. Sherlock could see everything and nothing was safe inside John's mind. The intensity of Sherlock's eyes was…doing things to John, that he couldn't deny. But he wanted to get his own back. His bravery was resurfacing, bubbling over his features and thoroughly confusing the man who was currently clutching his face. Ruffled, John batted the mitts away, stepped forward on tiptoe and stopped agonisingly short of the stunned Detective's agape mouth. Their breath mingled together when Sherlock inhaled huskily, their mouths ghosting for less than a millisecond. They stared at each other fleetingly, before John reached up to grab the royal blue scarf wrapped around Sherlock's throat, effectively pulling him the rest of the distance.

Sherlock didn't move, he just stared in stunned (perhaps muffled) silence as John just fucking _took_ his mouth, moving his own hands to roughly cup the narrow cheekbones and forcefully improve the angle. John couldn't help himself and he groaned against the unmoving lips, knowing full well that the other man was probably still staring at him while he tongue-fucked his mouth before breaking the kiss with a small, wet smacking sound. There was silence then, save for the ticking of the you-know-what, and Sherlock was for once lost for words.  
With a shrug, the mousy-haired companion looked away again, finally realising the gravity of what he just did. "I guess now, I've done everything I wanted to do." That wasn't entirely true; he would have liked to have done much more. _Much_ more. He could still taste Sherlock on his tongue and he rolled it around his mouth for a second, savouring it.  
"Again."  
John blinked stupidly, trying to focus on his impending doom. "What?"

The towering figure almost bit his lip as he adjusted his scarf, which had become slightly askew in all of the fumbling. And when he spoke, his voice was impossibly deep, his gaze smouldering, and his expression beckoning.  
"…Do that again."  
When John did nothing other than look like a deer caught in the headlights, Sherlock huffed and embraced the slightly stout frame of his friend, lanky arms snaking around his waist, bringing John close. For all his insisting, he was slightly hesitant, and he licked his lips several times before finally bending down a little and taking the plunge. It was so different from the first kiss. There was an unexpected, experimental tenderness there, like Sherlock was caressing the most fragile and important treasure known to man, and John melted under his touch. They kissed each other for several seconds before Sherlock broke for air.  
_"Sherlock…"_ Wheezed John, face well and truly flushed. "You don't have to–_a-aah!_" His whole body shuddered as a warm tongue lapped at the sensitive skin under his ear, Sherlock's breath coming ever so slightly shorter against the cooling saliva left behind. John cringed with embarrassment at his less-than-manly voice, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind as he explored South – a nip here, a suck there, whispering unintelligible nothings against the textured skin as he went. What he was really doing was committing all of the Doctor's most sensitive spots to memory, to…use later. Frowning when a rough item of clothing halted his progress, he shifted the unwelcome jacket aside and mouthed at the base of John's collarbone, making him gasp and clench his fingers in Sherlock's hair – and it was all a downhill spiral from there. Sherlock threw back his head at the sensation of hair-pulling and _MOANED_, eyes half-lidded as his body sent new and pulsing sensations everywhere. His voice echoed lewdly in the emptiness of the subway, and honestly, John couldn't remember a time when he had heard anything better. Sherlock seemed frozen in astonishment, head still tilted back, exposing a delightfully pale throat. John returned the favour, feverishly and with less finesse, but with a practised ease that promised experience that Sherlock could not match. He marked every bit of skin he could lay his mouth on, and his partner appeared to be hyperventilating as he closed his eyes and attempted to remain under control. He didn't want John to know that this, all of it, was extremely new to him. He needn't have worried, though; John was well aware of Sherlock's sexual inexperience, and frankly – finding out he wasn't as asexual as everyone thought? Well, that was fine by him.

"John…wait one moment." Sherlock wheezed, attempting to disentangle their limbs. John looked dazedly up at him, his lips swollen, wet and red, and let go reluctantly. Had Sherlock changed his mind?

"Sherlock, if this is too much, I can-"  
"No, don't be daft, John." He replied, straightening his clothes somewhat. "It's just the police will be here any moment and I know you're not prepared to let Lestrade see you snogging a man."  
"The Police?!" John cried, his brow furrowing. "Sherlock, they're going to get caught in the blast too!"  
Sherlock did that little smirk and wink thing he does, damn sexy bastard, before he lowered himself slowly down onto his knees before John, pointedly taking his time. John took a sharp intake of breath as he felt his cock give an interested twitch…Sherlock was going to…seriously? Sherlock smiled crookedly up at him, shifting his weight so that he was leaning forward, and John's hands twitched in anticipation. But the Doctor's lust soon turned into blind fury as he saw Sherlock flip a switch on the bomb between John's feet. The ticking stopped, and he rose, dusting off his knees and reaching for John again. "Now…I believe we were about to–"  
The smaller man took a step backwards and stuttered in disbelief, well out of the taller man's grasp, whipping his head to look first at the bomb and then at Sherlock. He pointed comically at the offending bomb, and he was as silent as it was, mouth moving open and closed wordlessly.  
"Oh come now, John." The dark-haired man chided, crossing his arms and crooking an eyebrow. "I'm Sherlock bloody Holmes. You think a little bomb – with an off switch, no less – could be any match for me?"

And there it was. This couldn't **really** be happening. Oh no, not really.

"You _knew–_"  
"Yes."  
"The whole time–"  
"Indeed."  
"That this bomb–"  
"Had an off switch, yes, my god – what is it like inside your head, you look but you don't SEE."

He was going to murder him. Sherlock _BLOODY_ Holmes was going to _WISH_ he had the luck to be blown instantly and painlessly to smithereens by the time John FUCKING Watson was through with him. He gritted his teeth in what could only be described as a snarl, and Sherlock looked genuinely befuddled as to what he had done to incur the Doctor's wrath. He had that wounded puppy look that only seemed to enrage John further, and he would have wrung the last breath from that lovebite-ridden throat right then and there – if the steady pattering of many running feet hadn't caught his attention. The Police had arrived.

"When we get home..." John said, voice scarily calm. Sherlock looked down at him rather hopefully. "We can continue?" Came his guess. It was the Doctor's turn to sneer as Lestrade and his cronies in blue rounded the corner. "When we get home, I am going to **FUCKING ****_MURDER_**** YOU, SHERLOCK!**"

All of England knew about the famous Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes – most of the Police had interacted with him at some point, and all knew of his reputation and irritating attitude. So it was perhaps no surprise to anyone that not a single Police Officer drew their gun or attempted to drag off the furious red-faced man currently straddling the Consulting Detective and beating the stuffing out of him.


End file.
